Hope Found Among the Thorns

Christian hope, to me, means placing all my trust for my future in God’s promises, even when my answered prayers come with a side of thorns.  

I learned this the hard way one summer afternoon in a friend’s backyard, chasing a birdie with all the enthusiasm of an Olympic athlete—minus the grace. My foot slipped, and I crashed spectacularly into her mother’s prized rosebush. While my friend stifled laughter, I looked toward heaven with a sigh and a sarcastic, “Seriously, God?”  

Five days before, I began a prayer to Saint Thérèse of Lisieux for three special intentions. Three things I thought at the age of fifteen would make my life complete: a boyfriend, a job, and a car. The holy trifecta of early adulthood.  

It all started a few weeks earlier. During a conversation with my mother, I was lamenting my lack of all three. Her advice was surprisingly simple: “Why don’t you pray for them? It couldn’t hurt.” This was coming from a woman I had never seen pray. We were, at best, Christmas-and-Easter Catholics. My memory of prayer with my family when I was growing up was an occasional, “Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep,” or a Rosary during thunderstorms. But desperate times call for divine interventions, so I decided to try.  
Not knowing exactly how to begin, I turned to my best friend's mom, whom I had watched pray with quiet devotion for years. Every evening around nine, she would retreat to a cozy corner of their parlor: a wingback chair bathed in the warm glow of a lamp, a side table stacked with a Bible, prayer cards, and a well-worn rosary.  

One evening, I approached her with my prayer dilemma. She listened patiently, then reached for something on her table. Before she handed it to me, she recited a verse from the Gospel of Matthew:

“Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened to you.” (Matthew 7:7) 

This sounded promising — like rubbing a spiritual genie lamp. With childlike hope, I accepted the small card she gave me. On it was a prayer to Saint Thérèse of Lisieux, the Little Flower. I was to say it before 11 AM for five consecutive days. She called it a novena, though this version seemed mercifully short. (Nine days of consistent prayer felt like an Olympic event for my AD/HD brain.)  

I committed to it wholeheartedly. A boyfriend, a job, and a car. Any order, Lord. I'm flexible.  

That Brings Us Back to the Rosebush  

On day five of the novena, mere hours after my final prayer, I found myself quite literally entangled in roses—and not in the romantic way I had envisioned. As I picked thorns from my palms and glared at the heavens, I remembered something my friend’s mom had said with a knowing smile: “Saint Thérèse always answers with a rose.” Really? THIS was my rose?  

Still curious, I dusted off the red Bible I’d received at Confirmation. I turned the tissue-thin pages to Matthew’s Gospel and read the verses surrounding the one she had quoted:  

“Which of you, if your son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake?” (Matthew 7:9–10) 

I couldn’t help but feel a little duped. I had asked for love, purpose, and independence — and instead, I got bruises, scratches, and confusion.  

What Was I Missing?  

The answer would take years — and a deepening prayer life — to unfold.  

With the gift of hindsight and spiritual growth, I realize the rosebush wasn’t a rejection. It was a reminder. It wasn’t a cruel joke from Heaven, but an invitation to trust deeper. God had not denied me good things. Instead, He had begun a transformation in my heart that would slowly reorient my desires.  

As Saint Paul so beautifully reminds us:  

We do not know how to pray as we ought, but the Spirit Himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words. (Romans 8:26) 

The Holy Spirit repackaged my prayers, refining, redirecting, and returning them in the form of grace. What I had thought I needed wasn’t wrong, but it wasn’t the whole story. The true answer to my prayer was peace.  

As often happens when I surrender our expectations to God, the things I prayed for came in time. Within two months, I had three jobs, my dad bought me a car, and a boyfriend whose first gift to me was — you guessed it — a single rose.  

That boyfriend? He’s now my husband. The car and the job have changed many times since, but the lesson remains: God always hears. He always answers. Sometimes with a whisper. Sometimes with a rose. And occasionally, with a rosebush.  

Through prayer, I discovered that hope doesn’t come from getting what we ask for — it blooms when we begin to trust the One we’re asking. 

For the Jubilee of Hope, the Catholic Mom contributors reflect on prayer as a source of hope in their lives.

Copyright 2025 Allison Gingras
Images: Holy Cross Family Ministries